He had to.  A bronc-busting cowboy named Darling,after all, meant he was a magnet for on-color (and, more often than not, off-color) jibes.  Of course, if his name wasn’t enough, at 4′ 8″ tall, heavily freckled, and with red hair as vibrant as Ronald McDonald’s, he was a veritable comic book.

He took it all with a shrug and a wink, though.

He rode broncos.  Nearly every bone in his body had been fractured or outright broken.  Nearly every joint had been sprained.  He lived with more pain than anyone had the right to, and he had long ago figured that humor, even being the center of it, was just the kind of distraction necessary to function through the pain.

He settled into the worn, torn cushion of the booth.  The diner was their favorite hangout when they passed through Midwin, Oklahoma.  It was so small, it wasn’t on any map that they had found.  A rough diner, a gas station, and a house for the family that owned both–it was small, and forgettable, if it weren’t now so familiar.

Tilting his head back, he drained what was left of his Corona in a single, big, swig.  “Ahh,” he sighed, winking across the table at Bellbottom.  “Now that, my friend, is exactly what this ol’ boy needed.”

Bellbottom grinned, displaying the large whole in his smile, where his front top and bottom teeth used to be, but were no longer thanks to one too many tequila shots, a flirtatious  80′s hair woman in a t-shirt that said ‘For Rent’, and a jealous husband.  The overprotective man had been a monster, one of those body-building types with little testicles, huge boobs, and even bigger fists. 

The tequila, unfortunately, kept Bellbottom in the tangle for one swing more than his teeth could take.

Darling shook his head with a snicker.  “Bellbottom, I need to thank you.”

“For what?” Bellbottom said, slurring a bit.  Five Budweiser’s in an hour and a half would do that to Bellbottom.

Darling couldn’t help it.  He laughed until his eyes watered.  “Because, without those teeth, and with those big purple eyes of yours–I can’t help but look at you and forget about all the pain in my back . . . and leg . . . and ankle . . . and wrist.”

Bellbottom laughed, too.  The man had been kicked by his daddy’s horse when he was young, and while he was, in truth, as smart as a whip, he always wore an outwardly daft expression.  In all their years on the circuit together, Darling had never figured out if it was an act, or if the man simply couldn’t help but look simple. 

“Well, I’m glad I can, could, be of service,” Bellbottom said in between bouts of drunken laughter.  “If you hadn’t fed me all that tequila, I wouldn’t be able to take your mind from the pain.  You now.  Now that I think about it.  I think you might have ulterior motives when we go to drinking.”

Darling squinted.  “You’ve got me all figured out, my friend.  You’re a genius.”

Their laughter subsided, and the proprietor’s spinster daughter approached the table.  Margaret.  Darling tipped his hat to her.

“Well, my dear Margaret, how are you this fine evening?”

The woman was a melancholy spirit.  She wore her ghosts like a mourning dress.  “Darling,” she said simply.  And then, with a look to Bellbottom, “Bill.”

“Now, now, Margaret,” Bellbottom said with an air of mock distress.  “Only my ex-wife, my ex-kids, my dead parents, my former principal, the IRS, and my–my–” he gave a bleary eyed inquisitive look to Darling before he continued, “and my colonoscopist, call me Bill.  Everyone else,” he exaggerated a peer at Margaret, “including you, should call me Bellbottom.”

Margaret shook her head, her mind somewhere else.  “Can I get you both another round?”

Darling stared at the woman.  He felt his good-humor being ground down.  She was kind enough, but her sadness was palpable.  Within proximity to her, he couldn’t help but wonder about her story.  “You bet,” he finally said.  “And why don’t you get one for yourself and join us?”

“I can’t,” she said matter-of-fact.  “I’m working.”

Darling looked around the rest of the diner.  But for them, it was empty–like usual.  He glanced up at the Cadillac clock on the wall.  “I don’t see anyone else in here taking your time, and seein’ it’s nearly eleven, I don’t see the harm.”

Margaret looked around furtively.  “I appreciate the offer, Darling, but if my dad saw me fraternizing with a customer, he’d fire me.”

“Good,” Bellbottom said loudly.  “Then you could get the hell out of Midwin, and do your own thing.”

Margaret forced a smile.

Darling saw an opening and pressed.  “You know, sister, Bellbottom might be on to something.  Now, I don’t want to get you into any kinda trouble, of course, but you’d be much better company than this daft drunk across the table from me.”

Margaret tugged at the starched, pressed, apron about her hips.  “I’ll join you for a minute, but I don’t drink.”

That brought a definite frown from Bellbottom.

“I’ll be right back with your beers,” she said, turning away to disappear into the kitchen behind polished steel double doors.

I, on the other hand, do not hold politicians above the citizen–and I definitely do not automatically acquiesce to their proclaimed intelligence.  It is, after all, a vary rare PUBLIC SERVANT that takes a political office to serve.  This, then, means the vast majority of PUBLIC SERVANTS seek only to serve themselves and their personal agendas. 

But then, I’m not telling anyone anything they don’t already know.

I digress.  This post was supposed to be straight and to the point.

Give it back.  None of my stuff was invested or handled by these guys, but they have my tax dollars.  I want it back.

I don’t care if they get sued for not paying out bonuses.  Seems to me it’s our money, and as such they should be asking our permission.  I don’t give it.  I want it back.

Give it back.

Working from home has many drawbacks.  It also has some surprising, if painful, benefits: like coming to terms with oneself, identifying shortcomings, and exposing areas of one’s life that need work both big and small. 

This morning I’ve been struggling with such issues.

I’m on break right now–eating lunch.  My food is bland, and utterly dissatisfying.  My mind is still stuck on my drive this morning, when I took my two oldest boys to school.  On the radio they discussed the Global Food Crisis.

The what?  What Global Food Crisis?  I mean, I know people are hungry.  My family is already supporting two great kids in Sierra Leone.  We are doing our part.  What is this, then, about a Global Food Crisis?

With skyrocketing global gas prices, and a worsening economy, and a myriad of other issues affecting countries and families across the globe, food has become twice as expensive as what it was–or more.  That means, as reported on the radio this morning:

When families all over the world have historically spent 80% of their income on food, and then food prices double–there is not enough food to go around.

I put myself in that situation.  Clearly, I instantly think: I would go without food myself to feed my kids.  But then, that can’t go on very long, either–without me, it becomes even worse for my family.  So then what?  Can anyone ‘choose’ which family member eats, and which one(s) don’t?

Unfathomable.

So what do you do?  Do you do what mother’s are doing in Haiti?  Do you make dirt cookies for the kids?  Literally–to put ‘something’ in the kid’s belly so they don’t ‘feel’ hungry, families are being forced to make cookies from a bit of shortening, some salt, and dirt.  Curbs the hunger, but offers little to no nutrition. 

The weight of it is nearly unbearable.

I put my food down.  I’ve been terrified for months.  No work.  Spiraling economy.  Will I make my mortgage?  Can I cover my credit card bill?  Can I put food on the table?  And here I stand, looking at my pantry.  I have plenty of food.  I study my kitchen, my house, my car.  Seriously. 

I am ashamed.  In spite of how bad things are, and how bad they might get–I have no clue what suffering is.

How do you choose between your family members?  Who will you feed?

The numbers are staggering.  Not ‘numbers’ mind you–people.

Every 7 seconds, a mother or a father collapses to their knees.  Some will shout with anger.  Some will lash out in hate.  Most will simply fold in on themselves and shudder to their core in pain and sadness.  Trembling hands will reach out to take up a child–their child–and pull them to their breast.  They will sob.  They will sob at their loss.  They will weep with a sense of failure.  They will weep, and nothing will change.

Their child will still be dead.

Every 7 seconds.

Whether through faith based groups or not–I implore you to find a way to give.  It doesn’t take much, truly, to make a difference–as little as $13 through some organizations, like Compassion International, will literally feed a child for a month.

Thirteen dollars.  I don’t care how tight things are, and how bad our economy is–you can afford $13.

It is now 12:13. 

Since starting this post 257 children world-wide have died from hunger.

As of April 17th, however, my rate increases to something utterly absurd like 29.6%!  Sweet.  I wonder if anyone else can jump on the ‘Let’s all punish the good guys’ bandwagon.  After all, if a good guy finished first, what the heck kind of precedent would that set?

Clearly, the card will be cancelled.  I assume this is some desperate act by Capital One to purge itself of it’s responsible clients in order to more efficiently fleece their irresponsible ones.  Good luck with that.

If you, too, are a Capital One credit card holder, you should know that ‘what’s in your wallet’ is a big steaming pile of stink.

Previous year’s definition of ‘STIMULUS’:

Main Entry:  stim·u·lus

Pronunciation:  \ˈstim-yə-ləs\

Function:  noun

Inflected Form(s):  plural stim·u·li \-ˌlī, -ˌlē\

Etymology:  Latin

Date:  1684

: something that rouses or incites to activity: as a: incentive b: stimulant  c: an agent (as an environmental change) that directly influences the activity of a living organism  

Main Entry:  stim·u·lus

Pronunciation:  \ˈstim-yə-ləs\

Function:  noun

Inflected Form(s):  plural stim·u·li \-ˌlī, -ˌlē\

Etymology:  Latin

Date:  2009

: something that rouses willing bondage: as a: a thrall b: an indentured servant to the state or c: an insidiuous blueprint to fund bigger government and bring a disenfranchised middle class in line with decades of high taxes and a permanently eroded manner of living.

Example: “I offered him a stimulus and he fell to his knees in worship.”

Function:  verb

Etymology:  Latin

Date:  2009

: the manner or action used to bring about servitude: as in: a: giving an organizim the proverbial shaft b: squeezing the middle class to the detriment of the middle class.

Example: “If you continue to be responsible, you fool, I will be forced to stimulus you.”

 

 

But I’m course correcting.  Writing is beginning again.  That damn novel is not going to finish itself, especially if it finishes me.

I’m on it.

I’m making it happen.

I’m giving myself a pep-talk, in cyber-ether, to nameless people across the country, enjoying a respite of voyeurism.

Man. I’m pathetic.

You’ve been in a weird mood this week, Joe.  Up, then down, then really down, then . . . what gives?

Well, I was employed Monday morning, and then I was filling out unemployment insurance Monday afternoon.  Sole-breadwinner, you know . . . so I suppose the roller-coaster emotional state is to be expected.

Seriously?

Seriously what?  That I’m the sole-breadwinner or that I’m unemployed?

That you’re unemployed.  You were fighting so hard, what happened?

I wasn’t alone, brother.  There were a bunch of us.  We were all fighting.  And yes, we are all now unemployed.  It sucks.  Figure it’s been in the news enough, though, so I can now mention it here.  MPC closed it’s doors forever on Monday.

Man.  That’s rough.  Um.  I don’t mean any offense, but I sense a a little bitterness.

Yeah?  Well, of course.  When you are let down like that, I don’t know, seems a natural response.  Given my faith, I know I really should be thankful–I mean, clearly, there must be better things planned for me in this, the onset of the next chapter of my life.  But, I’m human, too.  It’s not offered as an excuse, of course.  I’m fighting the urge and striving to be bigger than bitterness.

I think I can understand where you are coming from, man.  Was it handled, well, with dignity?

No.  It happened when virtually everyone was on break for the holidays.  Happy New Year, we’re closing the doors.

Well, now, clearly there must have been reasons forcing the poor timing of the event.  I mean, MPC isn’t the only company suffering.  At least you got severance, right?

No.  No severance.

Ouch.  Well, now that I think about it, the previous layoffs didn’t involve severance either, though.  That does suck.  Everyone received continued Medical Coverage for a time, at least?

No.  Medical Coverage terminated immediately.

Shut up. Well, I suppose in these tough times, companies have to save every penny, especially when they move into Liquidation.  The Creditor Committee has to get paid, afterall.  Hey, at least you got your accrued time off paid, even at 50%, right?

No.  While they were happy to pay it out while we were on holiday break, they say that all of our personally accrued time off was forfeited on the date of the filing of Chapter 11.  Therefore, the accrued time off being paid out is only what was accrued from the date of the filing to the time of liquidation.  In other words–not much.  At 50%, I’m not sure there will even be a full day’s hours paid out.

Um.  Well.  Hmmm.  Is . . . is that even legal?  What about the Warn Act?

No clue.  Don’t really have time to worry about it right now.  I’ve got to go find a job.  Next mortgage payment is due shortly, as is the kid’s school payment.  Really hoping it’s a legitimate career this time around.  Preferably with people who value ethics and morality.

Are you going to hit me if I wish you a Happy New Year?

No.  No.  Not at all.  Afterall, I’m really fighting to keep from being bitter.

Well, now you qualify for some schooling and stuff through Dept. of Labor, right?

Well, it’s a good program for sure . . . but it’s stacked against me, really.  I can’t cover my expenses if I am bound by their restrictions, which means I can’t take advantage of the training/schooling provisions.  Basically, I’m on my own.

But what about that comment you made earlier?  The one about your faith?

Ha!  Good call, brother.  Good call.  You’re absolutely right.  I’m not on my own.

Both are without parents, the remnants of civil unrest a number of years ago. 

Their letters stuck me.  If anyone has a right to be bitter, or unhappy, or faithless–it is these children.  Yet, you can feel their hearts through their words, and despite all of the tragedies and tribulations that have befallen them in their young lives, they are genuinely happy, and are with hope.

I juxtapose their attitude and outlook with my own, their personal trials with my own, and I am ashamed.

Thankfully, their attitude and hope are infectious, too.

If you really desire hope amid personal despair, and comfort amid personal uncertainty. . . may I humbly suggest you go out and help somebody.  It will change your perspective, and will feed your soul.  Though the ‘helped’ do recieve, the ‘helper’ is the true beneficiary.

I seemed so small, and it so big.  If it had eyes, that same sun, just getting a glimpse of me, would have been admiring how many others for how long. 

This got me to thinking: how cool would it be to have a picture diary–if you will–of the same sun, taken from the same direction, preferably at as close to the same lateral, at the same moment in time, from locations across the country?  It would effectively allow the viewer of the diary to see what the sun sees in a given moment.

I wonder how hard it would be to gather 20, 30, 50, or more people to make something like this happen?  All photographers, I think, should be asked to include some diary entry–something going on in their life, their town, their family.

It would be a project that tells many micro-stories that, tied to the over-arching theme of big and small, would have an opportunity to convey a macro-story.  Besides, if the pictures were good enough, and the diary entries interesting, and quirky, and heartfelt, and humorous . . . could be a good coffee-table book maybe worthy of publishing.

What would be the best way to put a grass-roots ameteur collaboration like this together?

If we could gather enough interested parties, we could then map out picture locations, set a date and time, and put something together.  We’d need to establish some ground rules, as to really make something out of this the we’d need to collect good, quality photos–preferably time stamped for proof that it was the same moment in time. 

If we did this, we could make a double feature out of it and do the same thing for sunsets as well.

I don’t know.  Maybe I’m a dork, but I think it would be kind of a cool collaboration, accomplished with a bunch of strangers from all over the country that would otherwise have no opportunity to meet, or to know/acknowledge ever existed.

How would we go about organizing something like this?

And how do we start a grass-roots movement wherein we take back our government?

I don’t know about you, but most folks I listen to, do not feel that their ‘representatives’ in government, at all levels, are actually ‘representing’ them.

Sad.  If it’s the majority, then how do we fix it?